


Sister Bright, Brother Dark

by thelightofmorning



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Class Issues, Crimes & Criminals, Death, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Half-Elves, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Infanticide, Misogyny, Multi, Physical Disability, Religious Conflict, Slut Shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-12-31 02:34:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 17,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21051155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Ygrun and Soren are Nord churls from the Velothi Mountains exiled from their village after their mother's death for being 'bad luck'; it is because one is a clubfoot and the other half-Dunmer. Captured and sent to die at Helgen, their paths diverge.In the Legion, Soren finds an outlet for his anger and resentment. When he is revealed to be the Dragonborn, his life reaches its zenith.In Whiterun and Riften, Ygrun finds an outlet for her wit and guile. When she meets a charming Thief, her life becomes all the more interesting.In them both, Skyrim will find its saviours.





	1. Unbound

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny, classism, criminal acts, alcoholism, whorephobia, and mentions of imprisonment, torture, genocide, infanticide and religious conflict. Meet my new OCs Ygrun and Soren! The Aurelii OCs are mentioned in passing; in this AU, Sigdrifa remained a Shieldmaiden until she married Ulfric, so Laina and half the events of the ‘canon’ never existed.

“Maybe I am bad luck,” Soren said glumly as the wagon rolled into a village the Imperial soldiers called Helgen. “First I get us kicked out of our village and now the Legion’s gonna execute us even though we aren’t Stormcloaks.”

Ygrun shook her head gingerly; the blow to the temple that knocked her unconscious during the Imperial ambush they’d been caught still hurt in time to her heartbeat. “You know the hetman wanted Ma’s cottage for his son. That dead cow was just an excuse to be rid of us.”

Soren slumped back in the wagon’s seat, expression bitter. He was two-and-twenty, she eight-and-twenty; they both had hair the brownish-gold of wheat, but where her eyes were water-blue, his were ruby-red from a Dunmer father. Any other Nord woman from the Velothi Mountains would have exposed a half-mer child, but their mother hadn’t given a damn about what the other villagers thought as the village barmaid (and tart).

“You were caught in what the Legion calls a carnificina,” supplied the blond Stormcloak – Plainsman from the looks of him – sitting across from Ygrun. “They rounded up everyone who wasn’t known to the people of Darkwater Crossing just in the hopes of capturing Jarl Ulfric, which they’ve done.”

“Maybe if you idiots hadn’t rebelled, none of us would be here,” Soren retorted sourly.

“We fight for Talos,” the blond chided.

“Fuck Talos. He isn’t a real god,” was her brother’s flat reply.

“We’re old faith,” Ygrun said hastily as the blond’s expression darkened. “None of them Imperial Divines, not even Talos.”

The blond’s face assumed the sunny smile she knew was a façade. “Fair enough. I’m Ralof. Sitting next to your sister is Jarl Ulfric. We go to Sovngarde today.”

“Soren Red-Eye,” her brother greeted begrudgingly. “My sister’s Ygrun. We’re from Cutter’s Ridge in the Velothi Mountains.”

They passed a gaunt, yellow-skinned mer on a fine horse, flanked by two guards in golden armour, and the Legion commander who’d captured them all. “General Tullius, the military governor,” Ralof observed disgustedly. “And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Should have guessed those damned elves would be mixed up in this.”

Ulfric, gagged, made a noise of anger and despair. Ygrun ignored it.

The two wagons rolled up and each prisoner was named by a soft-voiced, plain-faced Legionnaire with heavy shoulders. “Who are you?” he asked when Soren and Ygrun were sorted out in the line.

“Soren and Ygrun,” her brother answered. “We didn’t do anything and we don’t even worship Talos!”

“Captain, they’re not on the list,” the soldier said with a furrowed brow.

“Forget the list. They go to the block,” was the Cyrod’s curt response.

“I’m sorry, kinsman,” the soldier told Soren. “I’ll see your remains returned to your kin.”

Soren snorted. “We have none but each other.”

Ygrun settled for spitting on the Cyrod officer as she went past.

“Nice shot,” Ralof said with a grin as the woman grimaced.

“Thank you,” she said modestly.

They were given Imperial last rites, which incensed one Stormcloak so much that he marched forward, told the woman to shut up in the name of Talos, and taunted the executioner as he was knelt at the block. The headsman’s axe severed his head and it hadn’t even stopped rolling when a horse thief on the other wagon tried to run for it, getting an arrow to the back.

“Anyone else feel like running?” sneered the Captain.

No one answered.

“Next, the clubfoot,” she said with a smirk.

“May you die by the coward’s stroke and your bones go unburied for the beasts to chew on,” Ygrun told her as she limped over to the block.

It was a little hard to kneel but she managed. Her last sight would be the tower and the blue sky of Kyne above.

She was about to die when a black dragon landed on the tower and turned the world into fire and chaos.

…

“Still alive, prisoner? Stick close to me if you want to stay that way,” advised the soft-voiced soldier who’d briefly objected to their execution.

“What about my sister?” Soren demanded.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.” The lowlander grimaced in sympathy. “I think it’s everyone for themselves at the moment.”

Soren was reluctantly forced to obey him as the black dragon wreaked havoc across the town. Hadvar (so the General Tullius called him) led him between the wall and the buildings until they reached the courtyard, where if they ran they could reach the Keep. Soren looked across the expanse of cobblestone and despaired. There was no way Ygrun could make it.

“Come on!” Hadvar ordered.

They reached the Keep and Hadvar slammed the door behind him. “Grab a sword and some armour,” he ordered. “I don’t see the Stormcloaks cooperating with us.”

Soren made a rude noise. “Those cunts only care for themselves.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” Hadvar helped Soren don the light armour of a Legion scout. “Swing that sword a couple times. You’re a Nord. It’s in your blood.”

“I got a couple other tricks from my Dunmer da,” Soren assured him. Gods forgive him, he had to trust Ygrun found somewhere to hide until the dragon flew away. She was clever like that. “I can call fire.”

“So much the better. There’s very few mages among the Stormcloaks, though most of them know the healing and fire galdr.”

There were Stormcloaks everywhere, none of them in the mood to talk, and Soren lashed out at them with sword and spell. He didn’t much like the Empire after being captured, but Hadvar was right when he said Ulfric had forced Tullius to desperate measures, and these people might have gotten his sister killed. Ygrun was clever and kind and wise, but she was a clubfoot and not very good at fighting. If that dragon was going to eat her, he’d blame the Stormcloaks. The hetman who took Ma’s cottage was a Stormcloak.

They eventually won free of the Keep and watched the dragon sail away. “I think he’s gone for good,” Hadvar said in relief. “It should be safe to get to the nearest village.”

Soren grimaced. Every village he’d gone through in the Rift had spat at him when they realised he was half-mer.

“Riverwood’s not too bad. There’s a Bosmer and a couple Cyrods who live there. My uncle will welcome you as a friend,” Hadvar said reassuringly as they walked down the trail.

“Can we go back to Helgen and make sure my sister got out?” Soren asked.

Hadvar shook his head with a grimace. “It’ll be swarming with Stormcloaks. The Bruma Fourth and Falkreath First were scattered by the dragon and we had intelligence Sigdrifa Stormsword was at the nearby camp. That’s why we hurried with the executions; we couldn’t chance a rescue. I’m sorry.”

“If Ygrun’s dead…” Soren said bitterly.

“You lay the blame where it belongs,” Hadvar finished. “Even the General didn’t like having to invoke the carnificina. But it was the only way to make sure we could get Ulfric and kill him before the Stormsword or his sons could launch a counterattack.”

Hadvar sighed as they walked down the trail to the road. “I’m sorry. Ygrun and you were innocent. Please don’t hate the Empire for this day. We were trying to save more lives in the end.”

“Doesn’t make it right. That Captain was a bitch.”

“She was. She used to serve under my da Harnbjorn until the Stormsword’s raiders killed him a few months ago,” Hadvar explained. “The Stormcloaks have made monsters out of us because the alternative is so much the worse. Them Thalmor wanted all of you as Talos worshippers – and if they’d gotten you, you’d have a short life of pain and an eternity in a soul gem.”

Soren shuddered. He’d heard about the evil goldskin elves from veterans in Cutter’s Ridge.

“I’m sorry,” Hadvar said sadly. “Your sister deserved better.”

“We all did. I just wish I’d been able to stab Ulfric before we got out of there.”

Hadvar smiled. “You should consider enlisting in the Legion. We don’t give a damn about half-mer; in fact, your gifts could get you trained as a spellsword or battlemage, which commands specialist pay and missions. If it wasn’t for our battlemages, no one would have made the Keep today.”

Soren nodded absently. He’d return to Helgen in a few days to discover if anything remained of Ygrun, then maybe go join the Legion. He wouldn’t mind killing a few heathen Stormcloaks.

Maybe he could return to Cutter’s Ridge and take the hetman’s house. That would be nice.

He would have vengeance, one way or the other.

…

“Can you walk?” Ralof asked anxiously as Ygrun lurched out of the cave.

She nodded. If it hadn’t been for his strength, they might never have escaped the cave and its bear. Her gift for accuracy extended to the precious longbow and iron arrows she wore across her back.

They walked down the trail, Ralof musing on what the presence of the dragon meant. “Ulfric trained as a Greybeard and can speak the tongue of the dragons,” he concluded. “If anyone knows what it means, it’ll be him.”

“Was it just me or did that dragon seem to be chasing us?” Ygrun asked.

“I noticed it too,” Ralof said grimly. “As to what it means, I don’t know.”

They reached the Guardian Stones, three of the great Doomstones that were scattered across Skyrim. When she was younger, her mother Ila had taken both her and Soren to the Doomstone in the volcanic tundra of Eastmarch. “They say it can make you absorb evil magic without harm, but make your own magic harder to return,” she’d told them.

Soren hadn’t touched it. She had. Maybe that was how she’d survived nearly getting cooked by the dragon that destroyed Helgen.

Ralof reached out and touched the Warrior Stone, blue-white light outlining the constellation before spearing into the sky. After a moment’s hesitation, Ygrun chose Thief, who protected those who lived by wit and guile.

“Thief, hey?” Ralof asked with raised eyebrows.

“Do I look capable of fighting as a warrior?” Ygrun asked with some irony, gesturing to her twisted left leg.

“Point taken,” the Stormcloak said ruefully. “But not Mage?”

“My brother was always the better mage.” Ygrun sighed and looked down the road. “I think he escaped with… what was his name?”

“Hadvar,” Ralof said sourly. “The Legion’s most loyal bootlicker.”

Ygrun grimaced. “I’m not fond of you Stormcloaks, not the way the Stormsword calls us who worship the old gods ‘heathens’. But you didn’t drag me and my brother off to execution.”

“Precisely,” Ralof said with a sigh. “We need to reach Riverwood and warn my sister Gerdur. She’s the hetwoman there.”

She nodded. “Can I beg hospitality for the night? The soldiers took what little coin I had.”

“You saved my life with that potion,” Ralof said gravely. “That makes you a friend – and Nords stand by their friends.”

“Thanks.”

It was a long walk to Riverwood and it was night by the time they made it. She had to believe Soren had escaped. He was lucky and clever and far better at fighting than her.

_Old gods preserve him,_ she thought. It was all she could do for now.


	2. In the Deep End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. I’m taking a bit of a hiatus from the Aureliiverse because ‘The Winds of War’ will be very intense to write and I want to make sure my roof is fixed, my assessments are sorted, and everything’s okay before I start.

After a couple days at Hadvar’s uncle’s home, resting and recovering from the trauma of Helgen, Soren decided to accompany the soldier to Solitude. A horrified traveller had delivered the news to Riverwood of nothing but smoking rubble remaining of the village with multiple charred corpses in the open. There was no way Ygrun could have survived that dragon. She shouldn’t have had to die like that.

“Once we sort everything out, Tullius will be happy to have you on board,” Hadvar assured him as they climbed into the carriage. The way to Solitude was rife with bandits and unsafe for two men to travel on their own, according to the driver, so Hadvar paid their way. Alvor and Sigrid had given them enough food for two days and their blessings. Being treated with respect was a new thing to Soren and he found he enjoyed it.

“He won’t hold anything against me?” Soren asked as the carriage got into motion.

“No. You were an innocent caught up in the carnificina. That no longer applies if you join up with us.” Hadvar smiled wryly. “We have so few recruits from the Old Holds that even one could provide useful intelligence. Tullius and Legate Primus Rikke can glean knowledge from the shadow of the wind if they must.”

Soren nodded. “Okay. I’ll take your word for it.”

The trip was uneventful but for a group of bandits demanding a toll at Robber’s Gorge until Soren’s firebolt made them scatter. His mother had gone into Riften with some of her hard-earned coins and returned with a single tome that turned his innate stream of flames into a single charged shot. He’d practiced until he was almost as accurate as Ygrun. Ila couldn’t afford any more spells; this one book had cost three months and one week’s wages. But he cherished her gift.

“Nice shot,” Hadvar remarked.

“You should have seen Ygrun with a rock or bow and arrows,” Soren said with a sigh as the carriage trundled along. “She felled a bear with one arrow.”

“You will avenge her,” Hadvar said reassuringly.

Soren grunted in agreement.

They reached Solitude around dawn. It was a grand city, grander even than Whiterun, and that had been grander than Riften. Soren’s understanding that the world was much bigger than the folk of Cutter’s Ridge could comprehend pleased him. Maybe, when he was an officer in the Legion, he would return and confiscate the hetman’s house. The man _was_ an ardent supporter of Ulfric after all.

He received a confused sight of banners, flowers, an execution of a traitor going on and the jeers of the watching crowd before Hadvar led him up to Castle Dour, an imposing fortress glowering over the lower half of Solitude. A guard in Solitude’s red was drilling archers; their technique was atrocious.

Legate Primus Rikke was a square-jawed, square-shouldered Paler with silver-threaded brown hair and the hard gaze of a professional soldier. “I’m glad you survived Helgen,” she told Hadvar without preamble. “We lost half our officer corps there and another two on the way back with General Tullius.”

“He survived, ma’am?” Hadvar asked.

“Of course. Any dragon that would take a bite from me would get nothing but bone and gristle,” observed the short, stocky Cyrod in his ornate golden armour as he entered the room with its map-table. “Good to see you, Hadvar. I feared the Stormcloaks or the dragon had put paid to you.”

Hadvar saluted. “Quaestor Hadvar Harnbjornsson, reporting for duty!”

“Spare me the formality, Praetor,” Tullius ordered with a smile. “And who’s the boy? He seems familiar.”

“He was one of those two Rifters we picked up in the carnificina,” Hadvar told him. “We think the sister died at Helgen.”

Tullius winced. “I’m sorry about that. I couldn’t take the time to ascertain if you were just civilians or potential informants.”

Soren tried to copy Hadvar’s salute. “Quae… Err, Praetor Hadvar explained everything to me, sir. I’m Soren Red-Eye and my sister was Ygrun. We followers of the old faith have no love for Ulfric either since his wife drove us up into the mountains to begin with. So far as I’m concerned, that prick killed my sister, sir.”

“Old faith?” Tullius asked, brow furrowing.

“They worship the pre-Imperial Nord versions of the Divines,” Rikke answered. “Kyne, Shor, Dibella, Mara, Jhunal, Tsun, Stuhn and a couple others. Remember my report on reaching out to them as a fifth column in the Old Holds?”

Tullius sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I think so. So Sigdrifa’s persecuting you lot, huh? The irony of the Stormcloaks claiming we’re taking their rights to worship freely while they do it to others isn’t lost upon me.”

Rikke was studying Soren. “So you’re half-Dunmer?”

“No, my father was the long-lost son of Ysgramor,” Soren said sarcastically. “Of course I’m half-Dunmer!”

Hadvar cleared his throat. “If you want to enlist, you might want to lose the attitude.”

Rikke smiled thinly as Soren flushed. “It was a bit of a daft question with eyes like that. What are your skills?”

“He’s a natural with the gladius and knows one more Destruction spell – Firebolt, if I’m a good judge of magic – than most Nords,” Hadvar told her. “I’m thinking he’d make a good battlemage or spellsword, ma’am.”

Rikke’s eyebrows arched. “Is that so?”

“We could use an agent,” Tullius said thoughtfully. “Hadvar needs to stay closer to home until we can take stock of our losses.”

The Legate Primus nodded. “Well, Soren, I’m going to throw you into the deep end. Fort Hraggstad on the coast is currently inhabited by bandits, possibly in the pay of Sigdrifa Stormsword. I want them removed within a week. I don’t care how you do it, just get them gone.”

Hadvar looked alarmed. “Legate-“

Rikke held up a hand. “I’ve got a good feeling about Soren but an Imperial agent needs to be flexible, more flexible than a frontline recruit. I’m giving him a chance to go straight to specialist. If he’s not up to it, he can speak to Aldis about joining the other recruits in the courtyard.”

“I can do it,” Soren assured her.

He didn’t have a damn clue how to be rid of them.

“Dismissed,” Tullius said.

Outside, Hadvar sighed. “Are you sure you’re not biting off more than you can chew?”

Soren shrugged. “Bandits need to eat and drink. Ma taught me and Ygrun bit about herbcraft. Good stamina poison in mead they’re sold or steal will have ‘em snoring like babies.”

“Good idea, but Sigdrifa’s ‘bandits’ are usually fully trained militia, and she’s a hard taskmaster,” Hadvar pointed out.

“They’re on the other side of Skyrim to the woman.” Soren followed Hadvar down the ramp. “I think I can soften them up… for a patrol of Legionnaires or something.”

Hadvar rubbed his chin. “Aldis _does_ want to blood some of his better trained recruits. But can you do this?”

“My ma was the village barmaid and, ah, lady of negotiable virtue.” Soren allowed himself a grin. “I know how to get soldiers drunk off their ass. I just need a handcart of mead, a hooded cloak and something to put them to sleep.”

Hadvar grinned. “I can arrange that. Go talk to Vinius at the Winking Skeever. He usually has old mead he likes to sell cheap.”

Soren nodded and rubbed his hands. It wasn’t very honourable, but he wasn’t a true Nord anyway, so to Oblivion with the Stormcloaks’ version of honour. The Legion might just work out for him.


	3. Dampened Spirits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, ableism, fantastic racism and criminal acts. The Thieves Guild questline will be following more along the lines of the ‘TG for Good Guys’ mod because that’s how Ygrun rolls, so some divergence from canon.

Whiterun was the most magnificent city Ygrun had ever seen and she was only seeing it from the top of a hill. She stared for a moment before limping down the switchback trail, grateful for the new clothing Gerdur had given her with an apology for how old they were. Old? Sure, the seams were a little worn and there was some fraying at the hems, but there were no patches and mended tears. She even had soft boots instead of leather bags tied with cord.

Picking plants on the way to Riverwood, mixing them at the alchemy table in the inn, and selling them to the general store had given her a small bag of coins. Sleeping on a pallet by Gerdur’s fire had saved her the cost of one at the inn and the hetwoman had given her two days’ worth of flatbread, smoked salmon and dried fruit in addition to feeding her the best meals she’d ever had in her life. Back home, they only ever had meat if her snares or stones caught a rabbit, fox or pheasant. Gerdur’s stew pot had been enriched by the meat from the three wolves she and Ralof had killed yesterday and the hetwoman had taken it as a matter of course.

A comment between Alvor and his wife Sigrid at the smithy confirmed that Soren was alive and in the company of Hadvar, the soldier who’d briefly protested their execution. Ygrun had sighed inwardly in relief that her brother had survived, even if he was going to Solitude to sign up with the Legion. Once she was on her feet a little better, she’d send a message with the courier to let him know she was alive and alright. Maybe as a soldier he could channel his anger and resentment more productively. The amount of times she’d had to soothe someone’s temper because of his…

There were new plants on the green-gold plains of Whiterun and since it was a gloriously sunny day, Ygrun decided to go pick some more and try to determine their uses. Ila had known several simples for healing, weariness, sleep and other minor maladies, all of which she’d taught her children. A half-decent alchemist could scrape together enough of a living to cover the costs of living and travelling between villages. Ygrun needed to find somewhere permanent to settle by autumn’s end, because she had no illusions about her ability to live on the land when winter came.

So it was that when she was picking sprigs of lavender from the bush at the back of the meadery when a vaguely familiar man with long auburn hair and the brown leather armour of a Thief entered the rear door. What business would a Thief have to do with a small meadery? Intrigued, she tucked the lavender into the sack Gerdur gave her and entered after him.

By the time she was inside the main boilery, the Thief had jumped lightly from the top walkway and landed practically in front of her. “What the…?” he exclaimed in a lilting brogue.

“I wouldn’t yell,” she advised. “Neither of us are supposed to be here.”

A quick grin crossed his handsome face like cloud-shadow. “Ah, but I was hired to deal with the little vermin problem old Sabjorn’s having.”

“While stealing something very precious, I’m sure,” Ygrun noted dryly.

He smirked. “Something like that, lass. You’ve quick wits.”

Ygrun gestured to her leg. “I have to make up for this somehow.”

“So you do.” The Thief rubbed his chin. “Alchemist?”

“Amateur,” she admitted. “But I know most of the common simples of Eastmarch and the Rift.”

He nodded. “Come around the front with me and watch the show. I’m guessing you’re not burdened with reverence for authority and the law.”

Ygrun grimaced. “My brother and I were thrown out of our village by our hetman. You’d guess right.”

His smile broadened. “We could use an alchemist, even an amateur. Hang around after my little performance and we can talk some business.”

She nodded. “Certainly.”

The ‘performance’, it seemed, was to frame Sabjorn for unclean mead vats so that some pale-faced Cyrod could take over the meadery in the name of Maven Black-Briar, known for her tenacity and ruthlessness. After the brewer was marched away on the point of a sword, the Thief exchanged words with the Cyrod and then led Ygrun out into the amber-gold afternoon sunlight.

“I’ll buy you a drink and meal,” he offered as they walked along the road to Whiterun. Ygrun paused every few steps to pick lavender, tundra cotton, mora tapinella, mountain flower and in a few cases, butterflies and nirnroot. The Thief allowed her to do so with a slight smile.

“I’ll let you,” she admitted. “I have thirty septims to my name.”

“The blue mountain flower, lavender and cotton mixed together will make a potion Balgruuf’s court wizard will bleed coin for,” he suggested. “Trade them to Arcadia for some training and a few more recipes. The more you know, the better for the Guild.”

“So what do you want me from me?” Ygrun asked bluntly.

“The Guild has some proprietary recipes that require a trusted alchemist to prepare,” was his candid response. “Invisibility potions, potions for light feet, light fingers and general dexterity, even ones that make people more inclined to trust you.”

“Purple mountain flower and beehive husk for light feet, ground barnacle shell and slaughterfish egg for deft fingers, Namira’s rot and spider’s egg for sensitive fingers, and dragon’s tongue and cotton for a sweet tongue,” Ygrun told him. “My ma Ila was the village barmaid and, ah…”

His eyebrows shot up. “You’re Ila’s lass? From Cutter’s Ridge?”

“Ye-es,” Ygrun admitted. Had he been a customer of her mother’s?

The Thief grinned. “Your ma was our contact for goods smuggled from Morrowind, lass, back in Gallus’ day.”

“Did you ever sleep with her?” Ygrun asked frankly.

He shook his head. “I was a lad when I knew her. I know she had a thing with old Delvin back in the day, but that ended when our smuggling route to Morrowind did.”

“I remember Delvin,” Ygrun said softly. “He used to give me sweets.”

“Well, if you’re looking for a bit of reliable work and can mix me up a potion to prove your skill, we could use you,” the Thief said lightly. “I’m Brynjolf.”

“Ygrun.”

Whiterun was a kaleidoscope of colour, noise and prosperity. Brynjolf led her up to the marketplace and pointed out Arcadia’s shop. “Take your time, lass,” he advised. “I’m in no hurry.”

Arcadia’s shop was light and airy, redolent with the herbs hung from the roof and stacked on the shelves, and Arcadia herself a brown-haired Cyrod with a soft voice. She watched Ygrun mix the herbs she’d gathered with the odd critical or approving comment and when it came time to buy, haggled fiercely over every potion until a mixture of recipes, training in the herbs that grew on the plains, and thirty septims was agreed on as payment.

Ygrun had always been quick-witted but since she’d touched the Thief Stone, it was as if her chosen doom improved her alchemical skills and sweetened her tongue. Elgrim back in Riften would never have agreed to such a deal nor offered teaching. She absorbed Arcadia’s lessons easily after proving that she knew the basics of alchemy and went away a little richer, a little more knowledgeable.

Brynjolf had chosen a corner table away from the fire. Two bottles of Black-Briar mead, a loaf of dark rye bread and bowls of beef stew sat on the table. “Welcome back, lass,” he greeted warmly.

Ygrun handed over the stealth potion she’d concocted. “Take a sip and decide if I’m worth hiring.”

Brynjolf obeyed, swallowing it with a grimace and handing the vial back. “Aye, tastes right,” he conceded. As Ygrun watched intently, his breathing grew slower and shallower, the fidgets of any ordinary person ceased, and his movements become more deliberate.

After a couple minutes, Brynjolf nodded in satisfaction. “It works,” he confirmed. “How soon can you come to Riften?”

“When can you afford the carriage fare back?” Ygrun countered with a grin.

He laughed.


	4. Welcome to the Legion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

“How do we know you’re telling the truth about where the mead came from?” asked the ‘bandit’ leader suspiciously.

“Because if I was with the Legion, I’d need balls the size of a mammoth’s to walk up to the warriors of the Stormsword and give you mead,” Soren answered with all honesty. “We both know just because she has a stick up her arse, it doesn’t mean Galmar Stone-Fist likes to see true children of Skyrim going without their mead.”

The Stormcloak laughed. “Good point! Rifter, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Soren confirmed. “My ma was from a lumber village. My da… well, he came over the Velothi Mountains one day, didn’t he?”

He let the dim-witted Paler process the implications of that statement and why Soren had red eyes. It wasn’t true – Soren’s da had been a mercenary named Teldyn or something, Ila couldn’t quite remember – but no ‘true son of Skyrim’ wanted to know a Nord woman had laid down willingly with a dark elf. After all, what did a mer have in comparison to a Nord?

_“Hygiene and a sense of humour,”_ Ila had said wryly.

“Ah, lad, once we’ve rid Skyrim of the Imperials those damn greyskins will follow in short order,” said the Paler with something resembling sympathy. “Do you need shelter for the night?”

“I’ll have to pass,” Soren said, trying to sound regretful. “I need to report back to Istar Cairn-Breaker at the Haafingar camp. Cyrods never look twice at a half-mer running errands, so I’m one of his best couriers.”

“We’ll raise a mug in your name,” promised the Stormcloak.

“You do that,” Soren said as he turned away.

By nightfall, even the sentries were dozy, and the sounds of merriment came from within Fort Hraggstad’s walls. Soren crept up to the guard at the gate, who was without a helmet, and bashed him over the head with a borrowed wooden shield. He collapsed silently and Soren was able to enter the centre of the courtyard, where he unleashed the first of two Blizzard scrolls.

Half-frozen, if not dead, the five other sentries were helpless against a gladius thrust to the throat.

Soren took a helmet and put it on, brazenly entering the main fort. “Cold enough to freeze the Stormsword’s heart!” he announced, earning a laugh from the Stormcloaks. There was no love for Ulfric’s wife among the rank and file.

The other Blizzard scroll killed the three drinking in the main hall but three more came up from the prison, alerted by the unnatural frost riming the walls. Soren killed the first one with Firebolt but the other two flanked him, one throwing an axe that pinned the young man to the nearest table by the blue-grey wrap of his stolen Stormcloak uniform.

“Little traitor bastard!” snarled the axe-thrower. “I’ll mount your head on my wall-“

Firebolt took him in the face and he ran around screaming. Soren tore himself free from the blue-grey wrap as the last Stormcloak roared in fury, unleashing the Battle-Cry, and advanced.

There was no way to escape him as he rushed Soren to the ground with an iron-rimmed shield. He raised his shining steel sword high and the half-mer screamed in rage and fear, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Fire erupted around him, the edge of the Ancestor’s Wrath catching the Stormcloak’s arm, and the Eastmarcher burst into flame. Soren managed to push himself away, panting in fear – and aware he’d pissed himself – as the rebel dropped to the ground to try and quench the fire in the melting frost from Blizzard.

The other Stormcloak was on the ground now, twitching and making ugly noises. Soren ignored him, gathering the last dregs of his magicka and throwing Flames at the nearest one. Burned anew, he could only scream as Soren’s gladius ended his life.

It was somewhere past midnight when Soren left Fort Hraggstad, carrying what meagre loot could be found in the ‘bandit’ stronghold. He wearily walked back to Solitude, dawn touching the sky as he was let through the gates, two filled sacks in his hands.

Despite the early hour, Legate Primus Rikke was sparring with Hadvar in the courtyard, making the bigger man give ground steadily. With a laugh, the Praetor surrendered, and she gave him a wry smile. “You’re getting soft, Hadvar.”

“If you didn’t keep me in Solitude so much, I wouldn’t be,” was the big man’s retort.

“We lost a lot of our middle-ranked officers at Helgen.” Rikke sighed and removed her helmet.

“Ma’am, sir,” croaked Soren. “Job’s done.”

He emptied out one of the sacks to reveal the heads of the commander and the two best-armoured Stormcloaks.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Rikke said. “You did it.”

“Worked as planned, mostly,” Soren admitted wearily. “Gave ‘em mead spiked with a sleeping potion, used Blizzard scrolls to kill most of them, Firebolt and Flames and my gladius to finish the rest. Nearly died but he wasn’t counting on me having Ancestor’s Wrath instead of Battle-Cry.”

“Is that so?” Rikke’s voice was rich with satisfaction. “Then I think we’ll call you ‘Fire-Blood’ as an honour-name. You did what Hadvar and a squad of eight couldn’t.”

‘Fire-Blood’ was a lot better than ‘Red-Eye’, Soren decided, so he nodded.

Rikke led him into Castle Dour, where Tullius was reviewing paperwork over a breakfast of flatbread, fruit and ale. “He got it done, sir,” she announced.

“Did he now?” Tullius rose to his feet. “You certain you want to join up? As a specialist, Fort Hraggstad will be easy compared to some of what I’ll require from you.”

“The Old Holders spit on me because I’m half-mer,” Soren said flatly. “Their rebellion got my sister killed. I want to give them Oblivion and I don’t give a shit about Nord ‘honour’.”

“I can respect that,” Tullius said gravely. “Now, repeat my words…”

“Upon my honour I do swear undying loyalty to the Emperor, Titus Mede II, and unwavering obedience to the officers of his great Empire. May those above judge me, and those below take me, if I fail in my duty. Long live the Emperor! Long live the Empire!” Soren dutifully recited after Tullius.

“Welcome to the Imperial Legion, soldier. Just remember, we take care of our own. Once you're in the Legion, you're in it for life. Speak to Beirand, he's normally out by the forge. He'll get you outfitted,” Tullius said with a smile.

Soren offered the other sack. “I have some loot from the Stormcloaks.”

“Give it to Beirand. He’ll see if there’s anything worthwhile. Otherwise, you can keep it for yourself,” Tullius told him. “Consider it a bonus for a job well done.”

Soren saluted. “Yes, sir!”

After a nap and some breakfast, Hadvar took him to the blacksmith. “Beirand, got a specialist you need to outfit.”

“Is that so?” Beirand wiped his hands with a rag. “Light, medium or heavy?”

“Huh?” Soren asked intelligently.

“Light’s scout armour like we got you from Helgen, medium’s standard issue, and heavy’s plate like mine,” Hadvar explained.

“Light. Definitely light,” Soren said quickly. “I’ll be a spellsword or battlemage.”

“Given you’re a runty bastard, go the spellsword route,” Beirand advised kindly as he turned to his shelves. “Part-mer?”

“Da was Dunmer,” Soren confessed.

“Explains the eyes.” The blacksmith produced armour similar to what he’d worn at Helgen, only better.

“We’re calling him ‘Fire-Blood’ because he set a Stormcloak on fire,” Hadvar told him with relish.

“Good name, good name,” Beirand said approvingly. “Now try this on.”

After some adjustments, Soren found the armour fitted him perfectly, and Beirand gave him a quick lesson in how to maintain it. “You lose it, you’ll have to buy a new set from your own wage,” the blacksmith warned.

“Thank you,” Soren told him sincerely.

Hadvar took him to the stores, where he was issued two scarlet tunics, a woollen cloak, three new loincloths and a razor. “Legionnaires keep their hair and beards neat,” Hadvar told him. “Let the Stormcloaks be slovenly and wallow in their own filth.”

Soren had never shaved before and Hadvar had to show him how. He felt like a peeled potato afterwards, but was surprised at how much better he looked with his blond hair cut into a crop and minus a patchy beard.

“Welcome to the Legion,” Hadvar said, slapping him on the back. “Now it’s time for lunch.”

“How many times do we eat a day?” Soren asked as they headed to the mess.

“Thrice if we’re in camp or a town, twice if we’re on patrol or in the field,” Hadvar answered. “I hope you like beans. The Legion cooks _love_ them.”

Soren had to wonder if that dragon had killed him and he’d gone to Sovngarde, because he was getting regular meals, new clothing and some respect. But then he smelt the food and knew he wasn’t.

“Welcome to the Legion,” he murmured.


	5. Welcome to the Guild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and criminal acts.

“Lass, you’ll need to find your own way to the Ragged Flagon,” Brynjolf said as they entered Riften. “It’s part of the initiation process for all Guild members.”

Ygrun nodded. “I’ll find my way there.”

Brynjolf smiled and then between one eddy in the crowd and the next, he was gone.

She took a deep breath and pressed forward into the big bad city of Riften.

Because it had been a long trip, Ygrun stopped off at the Bee and Barb, splurging a little on fresh bread and cheese for breakfast. Maramal, the local priest of Mara, was already blaming the sins of the inn’s patrons for the return of the dragons. Only Ila’s lesson that one didn’t disrespect a person of the cloth kept Ygrun from throwing a cheese rind at him in disgust. He wouldn’t be so stupid if he saw a real dragon breathing fire at him.

She left the inn and looked around the marketplace for a bit, keeping one hand on her pouch. She gave a septim each to the beggars, earning blessings from them, and accepted a job from Balimund to run Harrald Law-Giver’s sword up to him, which earned her a couple of flawlessly cut garnets from the Jarl’s son. Brand-Shei bought them from her and she used the coin to buy some more iron arrows. Everyone knew the Ratways were dangerous – and they would be more so for her than others.

Finally, Ygrun descended into the Ratway and almost immediately heard two thugs discussing their defiance of the Guild. She’d heard things were a bit rough for the Thieves at the moment because of a run of bad luck, but they were still better for them than they were for her. So she nocked an arrow and aimed at the archer’s back. His hunting bow was better than her longbow, so she’d be happy to take it from his body.

Killing wasn’t unknown to Ygrun. Most of the meat for her family came from her bow and there were bandit raids every summer. So it was nothing to coolly sight down the length of the arrow, draw back and then release within heartbeats.

The archer dropped with a cry of pain and his friend, wielding a mace, roared in anger. Ygrun planted an arrow in his throat and then rose to her feet awkwardly. A discarded woodcutter’s axe silenced the archer and made sure of the bandit. She pragmatically took the hunting bow, more iron arrows and the mace, plus whatever coin or other valuables in their pockets. It wasn’t much – but they weren’t very good.

One vicious drunk, several skeevers, a couple traps and a skooma addict later, Ygrun was entering the Ragged Flagon. It was a dismal place, bare and practically empty, a far cry from her dim childhood recollections. Brynjolf was talking to a man in a barkeep’s shirt and two other people in elaborate silver-studded black leather armour.

“Those days are over, eh?” the redhead asked as Ygrun limped up to him. “What do you call Ila’s girl here, then?”

“Holy…” swore the shaven-headed man. _Delvin,_ Ygrun recalled. “How’d you get past the idiots in the Ratway, kid?”

“I’m a good archer and they weren’t particularly competent,” Ygrun answered.

“She’s touched by the Thief Stone,” Brynjolf explained.

“I was a good archer before that,” Ygrun told him tartly.

“I’m sure, lass. But your doom obviously lies with us.” Brynjolf smiled. “We have an alchemy setup here. Give us a couple days and we’ll have ingredients for you to work with.”

“Isn’t Mercer supposed to approve all new members of the Guild?” asked the albino Cyrod in black leather.

“He’s been bitching about our lack of an alchemist for some time,” Brynjolf answered waspishly. “Ygrun’s good enough to handle that, maybe some lookout and pickpocket training. But he can’t expect her to do more than that.”

“I’m just surprised something’s gone right for a change,” Delvin said glumly. “Something’s piss-drunk mad at us, I know it.”

“Follow me, lass,” Brynjolf told Ygrun. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of the family.”

Mercer turned out to be the Guildmaster and he accepted Ygrun’s membership with little more than a grimace. “I want ten potions a week,” the hard-faced Breton ordered.

“Get me the ingredients and you’ll have them,” Ygrun answered calmly. “What’s the pay?”

“Ten septims a bottle, bed and board,” Brynjolf told her. “It’s not much, but it’s better than a kick in the pants.”

“I’ll take it. When I’m better at it, we can renegotiate.” Ygrun smiled at them both.

Mercer grunted and went back to his desk while Brynjolf returned the smile. “Let’s find you a bed, lass.”

By the end of the next hour, Ygrun had met most of the other Thieves, proven her skill as an archer and learned the basics of lockpicking from Vex, the albino Cyrod. Tonilia, the Redguard fence, bought the loot she’d acquired in the Ratway for more coins than she’d ever seen before… but that was swiftly gone as she invested in an archery lesson with the Bosmer Thief Niruin.

She had somewhere secure to sleep, a regular supply of food and the promise of work. From here, Ygrun could rebuild and start acquiring enough wealth to make something of herself. Soren was no doubt doing the same in Solitude.

She smiled up at the ceiling of the cistern. All would be well.


	6. The Jagged Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. Ygrun has firmly told me she’s a lesbian who has Sapphire crushing on her. Like many family members, Soren is having trouble with the fact that disabled relatives can and do have love lives. He’ll get over it.

“From clearing out forts on my own to raiding tombs for ancient crowns. Who said life in the Legion was boring?”

Hadvar’s mouth quirked to the side as Soren made one of his many sarcastic observations. The young Auxiliary had proven himself adept in the month since he’d enlisted, taking to the discipline of a spellsword as if he was born to it, and the oftentimes solo role of a specialist suited his irreverent, somewhat sideways nature. Two major enclaves of bandits had been cleared from Haafingar and a coven of necromancers from Fort Snowhawk in Hjaalmarch before Rikke borrowed him for their mission in Stormcloak territory.

“Listen up,” Rikke said, though her lips were twitching in amusement. “We’ve got word that Galmar Stone-Fist and some of Ulfric’s elite guard have found Korvanjund, so there will be veterans familiar with Legion tactics present. That’s not counting the draugr, spiders and other beasties that make their home in the tombs of the ancients.”

The Legate sighed. “Some of these men may be known to you. Many served in the Legion. But now, they are the enemy and must be treated accordingly. We go in fast and we go in silent. Any questions?”

There were none and she nodded. “Let’s go.”

Soren’s firebolts took out the two archers and the other three Stormcloaks were overwhelmed by Rikke’s squad of twelve. Hadvar wiped his gladius on a dead rebel’s tunic as Soren fiddled with a lock at the far end of the tomb. “There’s some kind of treasure chest in here,” he called out to the others.

Stalks-His-Foes, the sole Argonian and a grizzled veteran battlemage, came over and used magic to unlock it. “There’s never enough coin in war,” he remarked.

The loot was good and Rikke put it under the watch of a single sentry before the rest entered.

Two Stormcloaks guarded the front chamber, having cleared out the bandits who’d set up here, and they died quickly to Legion archers. Rikke sent Soren ahead at a chokepoint to scout and when they heard the sound of a smashing jar and screams, they came to four Stormcloaks dead or on fire. Hadvar had to wonder if Soren didn’t like setting rebels on fire a little too much.

Soon they were facing draugr, not Stormcloaks, and Soren found the secret release to a locked door. Finally, they got past the puzzle door and located the inner sanctum, where King Borgas’ draugr sat on a stone throne with the Jagged Crown on his head and a Word Wall behind him. When Soren went closer, the draugr stirred, and he was quickly peddling back with a fearful curse.

Nine soldiers against three draugr and they lost two. But Stalks and Soren won the day with their Destruction spells and soon enough, they were scouring the tomb for more useful loot or tending their injuries.

“I’m a little surprised Galmar wasn’t here,” Rikke remarked as she closed the eyes of the two dead Legionnaires. “This sort of mission would be something he’d oversee personally.”

“I think he was, but he did a runner,” Soren answered from near the Word Wall. “There’s an open door here, ma’am.”

“Why didn’t he take the Crown?” Hadvar asked in disbelief.

“One man, without magic or the Thu’um, against a king-draugr and his huscarls is suicide,” Rikke said softly. “We had nine and we still lost two.”

“A sensible Stormcloak. Isn’t that against their religion or something?” Soren quipped.

“I get you have personal reasons for hating them, but never underestimate the Stormcloaks,” Rikke chided. “On their own, Galmar, Ulfric and Sigdrifa are dangerous. Together, they are the match of myself _and_ Tullius.”

“Not forever,” Soren said. “After all, you’ve got me.”

…

After finding the Jagged Crown, the Legion survivors marched to Whiterun because Rikke had intelligence that Ulfric was planning to attack soon, and Jarl Balgruuf the Greater could hardly refuse to meet the General’s second in command. Soren looked around the city with great interest; it was prosperous, diverse and colourful.

“Soren Red-Eye?” called out a beautiful dark-haired woman – ‘Marcher, if her pale skin and sculpted face was anything to go by – as he passed.

“Fire-Blood,” he corrected, giving her an admiring stare. “Have we met?”

“No,” was the woman’s response, delivered with a fearsome frown. Maybe she didn’t like men, so Soren glanced away a little. “But your sister asked us to let you know she’s alive and in Riften.”

“Wait, what? How could she survive Helgen-?” Soren demanded.

“Apparently she got out with Ralof, one of Ulfric’s hearthmen,” said the woman, who wore the sleeveless leather armour of a Thief. “Met one of our people in Whiterun, came back and made herself at home as our organisation’s alchemist. She hasn’t been able to send a courier to you because we’re all a bit thin on coin at the moment.”

Soren narrowed his eyes. “What’s her most noticeable attribute?”

The woman smirked. “I’d say her hair. It’s gorgeous. But I know you want me to tell her it’s her leg.”

“Auxiliary?” Rikke asked, looking over her shoulder. “Why are you talking to a Thief?”

“Tell Ygrun to come up to Solitude if she can,” Soren quickly said to the Thief. “I’m in the Legion and can provide for her.”

The Thief crossed her arms. “Your sister’s doing quite well on her own in Riften. She’s a clubfoot, not stupid, and she’s got a good mind for our kind of work.”

Soren sighed. “Tell her I’m alive?”

“She knows,” the Thief said quietly. “Ygrun’s not stupid and she’s inclined not to fret over things she can’t change. I like that about her.”

From the Thief’s intonation, Ygrun’s refusal of any suitors back home now made a lot of sense. He’d never really considered his sister to have lovers because… well, she was his sister.

“Break my sister’s heart and I’ll kill you,” Soren threatened.

She smiled wryly. “I’ve heard that a hundred times before.”

He chose not to say anything, but instead rejoined Rikke and the others.

“My sister’s alive and in Riften,” he explained as the Legate raised her eyebrows. “I think she’s with the Guild.”

“That’s a useful connection,” Rikke noted. “The Day Master, Brynjolf, has cooperated with us in the past when it comes to the Stormcloaks. He’s got a grudge.”

Hadvar suddenly snickered. “Remember when he ran Sigdrifa’s underwear up the flagpole in front of the Palace of the Kings?”

“I could like that man,” Soren laughed. “Not sure I like the one I just spoke to. She’s acting like my sister is… is…”

“Few brothers are comfortable contemplating their sisters’ love lives,” Stalks observed sympathetically.

“It makes sense,” Soren admitted with a sigh. “She refused the men back home. I just…”

“Your lives have diverged,” Rikke said quietly. “It’s part of growing up. We better deliver this intelligence to Balgruuf. We need to get back to Solitude.”

Soren had spent so long taking care of Ygrun that he found the idea of her being able to fend for herself strange. Romance was even more far-fetched!

He ruminated on it as they went up to the Jarl’s palace before finally shrugging. Ygrun would have to take care of herself. He hoped she just didn’t get caught. But it was good he didn’t have to worry about taking care of her anymore.

War was coming and now he had the chance to prove himself.


	7. The Raid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and criminal acts. Ygrun was originally going to be with Brynjolf, but she told me that Sapphire was more to her tastes.

“I met your brother,” Sapphire remarked as Ygrun strained another health potion. “Irritating little shit, isn’t he?”

“Soren has his moments,” Ygrun admitted. “How’d he take the news I’m alive?”

“Better than he did when I admitted I found you attractive,” the black-haired Thief observed wryly.

Ygrun sighed, corking the vial. “Half the village expected me to be like Ma and the other half expected me to be as celibate as a priest because of my leg. There were no other women who felt as I did, and while I believed Ma when she said it was natural, I was an outsider because I refused every suitor.”

Sapphire grimaced. “I’m not sure if I was lucky or not to be raised on the pig farm. We were dirt-poor, but we loved each other… until the bandits came.”

The Thief had shared her story with Ygrun a couple weeks ago. That she had clawed her way from absolute nothingness and despair to become a strong, competent woman impressed Ygrun to no end. It was still strange to deal with someone who felt as she did and found her attractive. Ila had never given her any good advice on what to do in a romantic relationship.

“Life is what it is,” Ygrun finally said aloud after mixing a new potion.

“Hey lovebirds!” Vex had sauntered into the cistern and approached them unnoticed. “We got a job for you two.”

“How may we assist you, oh queen of the infiltrators?” Sapphire asked with a mocking little bow, earning a snicker from Vex, who appreciated backbone in her subordinates.

“We’ve got an unauthorised skooma dealer in the city,” Vex answered, picking up an apple and peeling it. “Now, usually we’d sort this out quietly, but Brynjolf’s gotten wind of Ygrun making friends with some of the common rabble.”

“I just did a few minor favours for people,” Ygrun said, shifting on her stool uncomfortably.

“I know, but you’re spoken well of in the city, and word’s reached even the Jarl’s ear. If you can scrape the coin together to buy a property and perform a major service… like removing a scourge on Riften’s populace like an unauthorised skooma dealer… Laila Law-Giver might just make you a Thane,” Vex answered with a smirk.

Ygrun dropped the potion and her jaw in shock. “Are you joking?”

“No, lass.” Brynjolf sauntered over. “We need to diversify our interests, to quote Maven Black-Briar. I know you’ve been walking the path of the Grey Fox and it’s won us a few friends, but it’s brought you to the attention of the powerful, and that could be… awkward for us.”

Sapphire shifted. “So you want her to be a face?”

A ‘face’, as Ygrun knew, was a Guildsperson who had some public respectability and prosperity who could serve as a fence, a front or a political ally.

Vex and Brynjolf exchanged glances. “Aye,” the latter conceded. “Now we’ve concluded our alliance with the Khajiit caravans, we’ve got a better source of moon sugar, and Sarthis Idren told the Guild to go fuck themselves when we chastised him over the impurity of his product.”

Ygrun rubbed her brow. “Me. A possible Thane.”

“Aye. This might be the turn of luck we’ve been searching for.” Brynjolf smiled thinly. “We have no intention of removing you, lass. But having a Thane who’s also a Guildswoman could come in very, very handy.”

“And make us less reliant on Maven,” Sapphire mused. “Ygrun, I say we do it.”

Sarthis Idren had gotten complacent with lack of competition and so it was only him and a lackadaisical guard at the warehouse where he produced the skooma. Sapphire picked the lock and the guard was already dead from Ygrun’s bow before the mer realised something was wrong. Her bow sung again and the skooma dealer was dead.

“You’re good with that thing,” remarked Sapphire.

“You become a good archer when you’re the provider of meat for your family,” Ygrun said wryly.

The main source of the skooma was in Cragslane Cavern, somewhere which was known to hold a secret gambling and dog-fighting ring. After leaving word with Brynjolf and the Jarl’s court where they were going, the pair went across the Rift to almost the border with Eastmarch, Sapphire using Clairvoyance to guide them there. Ygrun was glad to shoot the door guard and his wolves to have a moment to sit down and rub salve into the muscles of her twisted leg.

“When you’re a Thane, you’re getting a horse,” Sapphire announced.

Ygrun grimaced. “I need a house before I can get a horse.”

“A few heists and we can manage,” Sapphire said cheerfully.

But first came the clearing of the cavern. Most of the inhabitants were too fogged by mead, skooma or both, the animals were half-starved and weak, and the Dunmer guards were no match for Sapphire or Ygrun. Only the head of the operation was any kind of threat but his legs were unarmoured, so a couple arrows to the knees made quick work of him. The loot was impressive and their packs were full by the time they’d piled the corpses into the middle of the cave and set fire to them with skooma as the accelerant.

“One of the few rules Mercer has in place that I like,” Sapphire said as they set up camp outside.

“None of you particularly like him, so why is he in charge?” Ygrun asked as she put some wolf meat on a spit to cook.

“Damned if I know. Brynjolf prefers to be second in command, Vex is just a little too abrasive, and Delvin doesn’t have the charisma.” Sapphire clicked her tongue. “Maybe I should go for the job.”

Ygrun grinned. “Let’s see who becomes Thane or Guildmaster first?”

Sapphire laughed. “Sweetie, maybe you should go for Laila’s job. A Guildmaster deserves a consort who is equal-“

Ygrun threw a handful of leaves at her, which led Sapphire to reach for her with a mock growl, and one thing led to another. Perhaps all would fall out as planned or the Guild’s streak of bad luck strike again, but for this moment, Ygrun was content with the world.


	8. The Dragonborn's Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“Another day, another tomb.”

Soren unleashed Firebolt on the patrolling draugr, grateful for the drilling in Destruction Stalks had given him over the past month. Summoning frost or lightning was still beyond his skill but now he knew more of the theory behind battle-magic and could use his magicka more efficiently. It was strange how easily he’d adapted to Legion discipline and the ways of the spellsword.

The draugr here were much the same as the ones back at Korvanjund and so were the tactics. Crouch, throw a firebolt or two, hit with sword as necessary. The skeevers and spider hadn’t been a pleasant surprise, but the bandits had some half-decent loot on them. It was all going well until he reached the inner sanctum and the Shouting draugr. Losing his gladius and running around the sanctum like a chicken with its head cut off, throwing firebolts and getting knocked on his arse by Shouts until it was dead, wasn’t fun.

But Soren dragged himself, the Dragonstone and the loot back to Riverwood, selling the Golden Claw back to Lucan and what was worthy selling to Alvor, and collapsed at the inn for several hours.

His return to Whiterun was… less than triumphant. Rikke and the Jagged Crown had gone ahead and when Soren dumped the Dragonstone on Farengar’s desk, the man was too busy talking to some Breton woman to pay much attention. _Then_ the Jarl’s huscarl came up and told everyone that a dragon was attacking Whiterun. Hadvar volunteered himself and Soren. Soren was not amused.

“Gods damn it, why do I get volunteered for these things?” he asked Hadvar as they jogged through Whiterun.

The Praetor smirked. “You wanted to be a specialist.”

“Dragons weren’t mentioned in the enlistment manual.”

Thankfully, this one was a big bronze beast that settled for breathing jets of fire and taunting the Hold guard in his guttural language. Soren ducked, weaved and threw firebolts, wishing Ygrun and her bow were here. She’d kill it with an arrow to the eye.

It was eventually brought to ground and as Soren neared, his borrowed steel sword in hand, the dragon gasped, “Dovahkiin? Niid!”

There was nothing or no one who could have prepared Soren for the rush of power and memories as flesh burned away from bone.

“Holy shit,” Hadvar cursed. “You’re the Dragonborn.”

He was just about to respond when “DOVAHKIIN!” thundered across the sky.

Soren did the only sensible thing to do in this situation. He fainted.

…

“So you want me to walk into Ulfric Stormcloak’s hall, hand him an axe and ask him what his intentions are? Why can’t I just Shout him off his throne and ram a sword up his…?”

The Dragonborn was young, brash and had a chip the size of High Hrothgar on his shoulder, no doubt stemming from his status as the half-mer bastard of a village barmaid. But there was greatness in Soren Fire-Blood’s ruby-red eyes that owed nothing to his ability to suck the soul clean from a dragon. Balgruuf was absolutely not surprised to discover he had a hand in finding the Jagged Crown. For that, the Jarl of Whiterun made him Thane.

“Because Ulfric might be a renegade but he holds to old Nord custom,” Balgruuf said, lounging back in his seat. “Are you familiar with the concept of propaganda?”

“Five weeks ago, I was the orphan son of a tavern tart,” Soren said bluntly. “So, no.”

“You’re the Dragonborn, figure of ancient Nord prophecy and legend, who happens to be a Quaestor in the Legion,” Legate Rikke, who’d been halfway to Solitude with the Jagged Crown when a courier brought her the news of Soren’s… ascension. “Ulfric’s going to see that the power of Talos is arrayed against him, not on his side as he might wish, and the Stormcloaks will wonder if divine favour has left the rebels.”

“You _will_ have the troops here on time, won’t you?” Balgruuf asked her anxiously.

“Trust me. No one wants Whiterun in the hands of Ulfric,” Rikke assured him.

“So I get to walk in there, essentially give Ulfric the finger, and walk out again?” Soren asked, visibly gleeful at the opportunity.

“More or less. But don’t use fighting words. We need you to stop the World-Eater,” Hadvar advised.

“I can be tactful,” Soren said quickly. “I won’t once call him a scum-sucking n’wah.”

“Deliver the axe, which he’ll return, and then get your arse back here,” Rikke ordered. “Because Ulfric will send the Stormcloak army at your heels.”

“Good!” Soren said cheerfully. “I run quicker when someone wants to kill me.”

Balgruuf reached for the mead. It was going to be a long few days.


	9. The Path of Honour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and ableism.

Laila Law-Giver clapped her hands together as the woman set to become her newest Thane entered her great hall. Ygrun was small and slender for a Nord, no doubt a legacy of her privations as a churl from the Velothi Mountains, but the sweep of wheat-gold hair that fell past one shoulder and the sculpted bones of her sun-browned face proclaimed her ancestry. There was knotted muscle in her limbs, even the one twisted by a club foot, and her guards spoke in awe of her skills with a bow. In six weeks, she had done more for the Rift than anyone else in Laila’s court, even the redoubtable Maven Black-Briar. Skooma banished from the streets, beggars fed from her own purse, errands run for the meanest of churls without pride… It swelled the Jarl’s heart to know she had such a noble woman in her city.

Her companion, on the other hand, had a more dubious reputation and possibly even an association with the Thieves Guild. Tall, pale and black-haired, Sapphire had the long bones of an Eastmarcher and the sultry contralto of a seductress, though she’d rebuffed – with violence at times – every approach of a man. Judging by the way she carried herself around Ygrun, it seemed her heart was given to women. Laila supposed pickings were thin if two such chalk-and-cheese people fell in love with each other; or maybe Ygrun saw more honour in Sapphire than Laila did.

“Another day, another bounty,” Ygrun announced, holding up a bloodstained sack. “There are no more bandits around Lake Honrich, your Grace.”

“Wonderful news!” Laila clapped again with joy. “Are you any closer to affording Honeyside? I would waive the requirement myself, but Anuriel tells me it would smack of favouritism if I did so.”

“We’ve got a few bounties to go. There’s a lot of ‘bandits’ operating in the hinterlands,” Sapphire answered with a frown.

Laila frowned herself, trying to understand the implication of the woman’s statement. “I don’t understand.”

“We’ve found orders from Windhelm in the pockets of a couple bandit chiefs set up in more strategic locations,” Ygrun said grimly. “It matches with the intelligence I received from my brother in Haafingar.”

Laila sat up straight in her throne. “Brother? Haafingar?”

Ygrun momentarily looked surprised. “I never mentioned my brother Soren? We were captured in the carnificina at Darkwater Crossing and separated during the chaos of Helgen. He went to Solitude and I went to Riften to find our fortunes.”

Anuriel shifted, expression suddenly alert. “Soren Fire-Blood?”

“Is that what the Legion’s calling him?” Ygrun sounded more amused than anything else. “I suppose it’s better than Red-Eye. That was his last byname. His da was a Dunmer.”

Laila knew that Ygrun’s mother had been a woman of somewhat negotiable virtue. “He’s in the Legion? That’s troubling…”

“The Stormcloaks in our village repeatedly spat on him for being half-mer, me for being a clubfoot and our mother for preferring a Dunmer mercenary who bathed regularly over Nords who smelt like goatshit,” Ygrun answered with her customary forthrightness. “Some of Ulfric’s supporters, like yourself, have noble goals but most of them are racist arseholes who take pride in pissing on anyone who doesn’t meet their standard of a ‘true Nord’.”

Sometimes, Laila thought ruefully, Ygrun’s peasant origins showed very strongly in her speech.

“My Jarl, I’ve received intelligence about Soren Fire-Blood,” Anuriel said hastily. “I was planning to share it later but since Ygrun’s here, I might as well tell her too.”

“What’s my brother done now?” Ygrun asked in the exasperated tone of older sisters everywhere.

Anuriel inclined her head slightly to the woman. “Your brother, according to my sources in Haafingar, has been revealed as the Dragonborn, prophesised saviour of Skyrim from the dragons which are even now roosting in the mountains.”

Laila barely managed to avoid dropping her jaw in shock.

Ygrun simply exchanged a long glance with Sapphire. “That explains his ego,” was her only comment.

“It also explains how one young man with barely any combat training was able to completely purge Haafingar and half of Hjaalmarch of bandits, locate the long-lost Jagged Crown, and be made Thane of Whiterun by Balgruuf the Greater,” Anuriel agreed crisply. “I’m given to understand he now holds the rank of Quaestor in the Legion and is set to rise even further.”

“If your brother can do half the things they say the Tongues could do in the stories, Ulfric can kiss his arse and city goodbye,” Sapphire said with some relish.

Laila poured herself a goblet of mead. “Are you saying that the Stormcloak cause is doomed? What of holy Talos?”

“Your Grace, I’m old-faith. Talos never has been nor never will be a god of mine,” Ygrun said with a sigh. “I feel I would serve Riften poorly if I didn’t point out that Sigdrifa Stormsword, according to my brother, has seeded the Old Holds and parts of the west with militia masquerading as bandits, all holding strategic locations. She might have sold you the idea that it’s to make sure the Imperials don’t know the full extent of Ulfric’s army but…”

“She’s got the Rift by the short and curlies,” Sapphire finished crudely. “Ulfric, or at least his famously paranoid wife, doesn’t trust the loyalty of the Rift, your Grace.”

Laila let the words sink in for several moments. She wasn’t the smartest Jarl, but she did her best to protect her Hold with honour. “I should send a demand to Ulfric for an explanation!”

“Good luck with that. I think he’s preoccupied with trying to invade Whiterun. Where the Dragonborn, who’s as good with a sword and fire spell as I am with a bow, is Thane. And leading a troop of warriors under Legate Primus Rikke,” Ygrun observed dryly.

“Besides, everyone knows Sigdrifa has ties to the Dark Brotherhood. Astrid, its leader, is a failed Shieldmaiden and a friend of the Stormsword’s,” Sapphire said, examining her fingernails nonchalantly. “The Jarl who protests can easily have an accident and be replaced with a more… pliable Jarl.”

Laila blanched. “She wouldn’t!”

“That’s your call to make,” Ygrun said with a slight shrug. “I’m just a churl who’s lucked into maybe becoming a Thane. Politics are beyond me.”

Laila glanced at Anuriel and saw the answer in her grim gaze. “Damn her,” the Jarl said fervently. “She has a dagger at my throat!”

Sapphire smiled. “Not necessarily. As loyal citizens of the Rift, it’s our duty to… remove the trash… you could say. Eastmarch says they’re bandits. If they’re truly Stormcloak warriors… well, I’m sure they’ll be drinking in Sovngarde and Talos will understand. We are, after all, protecting our Jarl from internal dangers.”

Laila allowed herself one quick moment of relief. Maybe Sapphire did have ties to the Thieves’ Guild, but she seemed to understand politics better than anyone else. Maybe it was a by-product of youthful indiscretions. Even Ygrun admitted to selling potions to known Thieves as she had very little liquid equity.

“Well then, go forth and rid my Hold of these terrible bandits. To have the sister of the Dragonborn as Thane of the Rift will only increase our honour.” Laila allowed herself a heavy sigh. “Though how I balance this against my devotion to Talos, I don’t know…”

“You could revive the old ways,” Ygrun suggested quietly. “Torgeir, the High Priest of Tsun, is always happy to lead others to the ways of our Atmoran forefathers.”

Sapphire snickered. “At least he doesn’t preach as much as Maramal!”

Having been harangued by the High Priest of Mara, Laila could well understand the woman’s sentiment. “I might at that. Go, Anuriel and I have much to discuss, and I hope I can make you Thane the next time I see you.”

“It will be so,” Ygrun promised.

Laila smiled. Sometimes a Jarl needed outside help to understand what honour was. Thank the gods she had people like Ygrun and Sapphire to help her find the way.


	10. Fare, But Not Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, fantastic racism, violence, imprisonment, infanticide and corpse desecration.

“I fight for the men I've held in my arms, dying on foreign soil! I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breath. I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces. I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves! I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing! I fight... because I must.”

Ulfric Stormcloak let the last word ring out in the Great Hall of the Palace of the Kings before looking down from the Throne of Ysgramor at the whip-lean youth with the bluntly pointed ears and ruby-red eyes of a Nord tainted by merish blood. He couldn’t fault the boy for his ancestry, only the mother for not exposing the product of unnatural congress. “It’s a brave man who approaches a Jarl without permission.”

An insolent smile and a steel axe that flashed blue-silver in the firelight, hung with golden tassels, was his only reply. Ulfric didn’t need to see the horse’s head of Whiterun to understand who had sent the message and the import of it.

“You're quite brave to carry such a message,” Ulfric conceded. “It’s a pity you’ve chosen the wrong side.”

“Which side would that be?” asked the youth in a Rifter’s raw accent. “The one where the ‘true sons of Skyrim’ spat on me or the side where they don’t give a rat’s arse about my sire’s identity?”

“You have the right to be resentful. Your mother did you no favours by keeping you,” Ulfric pointed out. “But that doesn’t mean you are absolved of making dishonourable choices.”

“My mother was a truer Nord than any Stormcloak who ever lived,” the messenger said quietly. “When the day comes, oh Jarl of Windhelm, and it is coming soon… They will remember Ila as the mother of Soren Fire-Blood, the Last Dragonborn and hero of the Legion, over whoever the hell gave birth to you.”

Ulfric raised an eyebrow. “You’re the Last-?”

Soren turned his head and used the first Word of Unrelenting Force to scatter the pewter crockery on the nearest feasting table.

“Come on down to Whiterun if you want to end this quickly for your people’s sakes,” the ruby-eyed youth suggested with another insolent smile. “I’d take care of you now in a duel of honour… except that your servants would take the outcome about as well as Torygg’s did after you Shouted him arse over head with a butter knife in hand.”

The contempt was thick in that churl’s drawl and it was all Ulfric could do not to bury Balgruuf’s axe in the boy’s skull.

“You can return this axe to the man who sent it. And tell him he should prepare to entertain... visitors,” Ulfric warned as he thrust the axe at Soren. “I expect a great deal of excitement in the city of Whiterun in the near future...”

“Oh good, I was looking forward to killing a few more of your goons,” Soren said brightly. “Fare, but not well, Ulfric.”

It took all of Ulfric’s might not to send him tumbling out the door with Unrelenting Force.

“I suppose if we kill him, the world is doomed?” Sigdrifa asked harshly from the war room.

“Better the world die than be ruled by the elves,” Galmar grated beside her.

Ulfric inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “He has family. Find them and… secure them. If he will not serve out of honour, let him be driven to it.”

Sigdrifa nodded. “Just when I thought you’d lost all your common sense at Helgen. It will be done.”

It went downhill from there. Soren’s sister turned out to be the newest Thane of the Rift and when the Stormsword’s messenger reported all the militia in the Rift were dead because they’d been considered ‘bandits’, Sigdrifa swore herself hoarse. For a holy woman of Talos, she said the most blasphemous things. No wonder Bjarni swore so much.

The next tactic was a Dark Brotherhood assassin as Sigdrifa took the loss of her specially trained warriors personally. The lizard returned, apologised profusely, and explained that the protocols between Brotherhood and Thieves Guild meant it was greatly discourteous for one to try and assassinate someone from the other. Sigdrifa’s cursing rose to new heights of blasphemy and inventiveness.

When Ulfric sent a letter warning Laila of her newest Thane’s political allegiances, the response was… acidic. Someone had leaked information to the Jarl of the Rift about the hidden purpose of the soldiers in her Hold and Laila’s blistering screed tore shreds out of Ulfric’s honour and called Sigdrifa all sorts of inventive names that made even Bjarni wince.

Egil, their younger son, decided that he’d take vows with the Vigilants of Stendarr then and there in disgust.

Nettled, his honour in question, Ulfric responded by sending his soldiers to take Whiterun under the command of Sigdrifa Stormsword. Let his wife vent her spleen on the Legion and gain a victory to blunt Laila’s accusations.

It failed and Sigdrifa’s head was returned to him on a silver platter with an invitation to duel the Dragonborn any time he wanted.

Externally, dragons rampaged across the Old Holds, burning almost everything flammable and eating whatever they could find. Laila sent her submission to the Legion and received the Dragonborn, a crack squad of dragon-killing Legion soldiers, and the skull of every offending beast in the Hold in return.

Ulfric was beginning to realise that the Dragonborn’s goodbye hadn’t been mockery but a sincere promise.

Because he and the Stormcloaks were not faring well.


	11. Scoundrel's Folly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for criminal acts and mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism.

Ygrun released the last of her arrows and grinned at the wince of the Argonian as it landed right between his legs. Behind her and Sapphire lay an entire cave full of dead bandits and impressive amounts of loot. Before them was Gulum-Ei, the go-between in a deal that saw Maven Black-Briar lose her source of honey from Goldenglow Estate.

“Hist damn it, I’d have never taken the deal if I knew it’d end like this,” hissed Gulum-Ei. “I suppose you want to kill me? I’m worth more alive.”

“I know,” Ygrun assured him gently. “Someone’s using you as a pawn to screw over Maven Black-Briar. While I appreciate the sentiment, it’s making things difficult for the Guild. Turn over everything you’ve got on our recent troubles and you can walk away.”

Gulum-Ei’s gaze narrowed. “You think they’re after Maven?”

“Someone’s been doing their damnedest to undermine her,” Sapphire pointed out.

The lizard-man shook his head. “It isn’t Maven. She’s just collateral damage. I think it’s aimed at Mercer Frey.”

“Our Guildmaster?” Ygrun asked in surprise. “The man’s an ass but-“

“In another life, me and my broodmates would have been Shadowscales, assassins of Blackmarsh,” Gulum-Ei said slowly. “But we weren’t because the facility was destroyed. So we became allies of the Guild.”

He reached into his tunic and drew out a sheaf of papers. “I remember Gallus Desidenius using the same symbol this womer signed the paperwork with. I think it’s something to do with Mercer, because she said she’d meet him where it all ended.”

“Womer?” Sapphire asked sharply as Ygrun took the papers.

“Dunmer. Violet eyes.”

Sapphire said something that made Ygrun’s ears burn. “Fucking Karliah!”

“Karliah? Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” Gulum-Ei was now babbling. “Please assure Mercer I didn’t know-“

“We’ll keep the paperwork. Just go. Don’t mind the corpses on the way back,” Ygrun said absently.

The lizard-man couldn’t leave soon enough.

“Karliah. Wasn’t she the one who killed Gallus?” Ygrun asked her lover.

“Yes,” Sapphire grated. “And we’ve had nothing but bad luck since, according to the elders.”

“Sounds like she gave bad luck a helping hand,” Ygrun said dryly.

“Maybe.” Sapphire’s expression eased. “We should head back to Riften and warn Mercer.”

“I know. But I want to see my brother first.” Ygrun smiled crookedly. “I want to see if he’s grown dragon horns or something.”

In the four months since she’d seen him, Soren had bulked up quite a bit and gained an aura of confidence that bordered on arrogance. His hair was bleached straw-yellow from the sun and his ruby-red eyes flashed green-red in the candlelight as he straightened up from reviewing a map with a stocky Cyrod and brown-haired Paler.

“Who the hell let you two in?” demanded the Cyrod.

“That’s my sister and her girlfriend,” Soren told him in a voice that rumbled with soft thunder. “They probably picked the lock or something.”

“We just walked in,” Sapphire protested. “Besides, we’re honest citizens these days!”

Soren’s snort said it all.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Ygrun said apologetically. “We were in town and I was told my brother was too. It’s been months since I saw him…”

“Ah, never mind,” the Cyrod said, waving his hand dismissively. “Soren, you’re dismissed until first light tomorrow. Try not to insult anyone or set them on fire.”

“I thought that’s what you hired me for, General,” Soren observed amusedly. He was obviously still a smartarse.

The Paler was giving Sapphire a narrow-eyed stare. “A crate of Emberbrand wine went missing from the Blue Palace earlier today,” she said pointedly.

“That was not me,” Sapphire said in perfect truthfulness. “I don’t steal much these days. Killing Stormcloak ‘bandits’ and taking their stuff is so much more profitable.”

“So you were the ones who talked some sense into Jarl Laila? Appreciated,” General Tullius said. “Don’t suppose you have any ideas for the Pale, Winterhold and Eastmarch?”

“Let the dragons soften them up more,” Sapphire advised. “If they don’t want to serve the Empire, they don’t get protected by the Dragonborn.”

“You, I like.” Tullius’ smile was a wintry thing. “Ever considered enlisting?”

“She’s a little busy being my consort,” Ygrun said with a smile. “Besides, doesn’t Soren already fill the Legion’s quota of smartarses on his own?”

Tullius laughed. “You’re his sister alright. Dismissed, all of you.”

At the Winking Skeever, Soren ordered drinks and food with all the ease of a frequent customer. Nearly everything was meat, meat and more meat. Maybe it was a Dragonborn thing. “I thought you were dead for a month or so,” he said quietly as Sorex ran off to get the meal.

“I’m sorry,” Ygrun apologised. “There was nothing I could do to help you in Solitude, but plenty I could do in the Rift. I never doubted your survival and sent a message as soon as I could.”

“Thane and Quaestor. Ma would be beside herself with pride if she could see us now.” Soren took a hefty gulp of mead. “There’s something I could use the Guild’s help with.”

Sapphire toyed with her own goblet. “We have family rates… or we can trade in favours.”

“Karliah?” Ygrun guessed.

“Maybe.”

After another swallow of mead, Soren nodded. “I need information on the dragons. My other option is… to… well, piss off a certain faction known for their snazzy black robes.”

Sapphire snickered. “I thought you’d ask for something hard. Old Esbern in the Ratway is always rambling about dragons.”

“Wait, Mr ‘It’s the end of the world and we’re all snacks for Alduin’?” Ygrun asked amusedly.

“The same.” Sapphire leaned forward and whispered, “Guild rumour is he was a Blade.”

“Is that so?” Soren grinned. “So, who is Karliah and how has she offended you?”

Sapphire gave him the rundown on the renegade Thief and he nodded slowly. “Go back, tell your Guildmaster what’s going on. This smells to high heaven and I know something very embarrassing about Gulum-Ei.”

He raised his hand and the palm glowed blue-white. “I can track you and Stalks owes me a favour. I’ve got your back, no matter what.”

But he clapped his hands as Sorex brought the first course of their meal. “So tell me how my big sister became a Thane of the Rift? I bet old Bjorn in Cutter’s Ridge is pissed…”


	12. A Cornered Rat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

****Riften was the same old smelly shithole it had always been but Soren had to admit his sister’s house was in the better part of town. “We’ll take you to the Ragged Flagon and you can negotiate free passage through the Ratway Vaults,” Ygrun told him. “The Guild can’t do anything for free.”

“Have you considered a better hideout?” Soren asked later as they walked through the dark, dank tunnels.

“Thieves who get fancy get killed,” Ygrun responded. “I stopped working directly for them when I was made Thane, though I still serve their interests as it benefits me.”

“Don’t hand over the papers to Goldenglow,” Soren advised softly. “Elisif tells me a certain mead matriarch is greedy and needs a leash on her.”

Sapphire frowned. “She stuck by us when things were bad.”

“And I bet she treats you like you’re her lackeys.”

“She does,” Ygrun noted. “She talked down to me like I was a halfwit.”

“We’ll worry about Maven when Karliah’s sorted,” Sapphire said.

The Ragged Flagon was a surprisingly lively place, complete with its own blacksmith, fletcher and alchemist. “I see I’ve been replaced,” Ygrun said ruefully.

“Ah, lass, he came in after we took over Markarth,” said Brynjolf, the Guild’s main representative. “Would this be your brother?”

“Soren Fire-Blood, at your service – for reasonable fees, of course,” Soren said with a slightly mocking bow.

“You’re Ila and Teldryn’s lad a’right,” Brynjolf said amusedly. “What brings the mighty Dragonborn down here?”

“We need Esbern,” Sapphire told the redhead tersely. “He knows dragons.”

A lithe Bosmer emerged from the shadows. “Bryn, there’s Thalmor in the Vaults. They mentioned Etienne’s name and-“

“Fuck!” Sapphire swore. “Rarnis is one of ours.”

“And Esbern’s a Blade.” Brynjolf’s expression was now grim. “Arm up, you two.”

“Mercer let them through,” supplied a man in a barkeep’s tunic.

“Fuck Mercer,” Ygrun said flatly. “If they kill Esbern, it’s the end of the fucking world.”

“Sweet Lady of the Luck,” Brynjolf cursed. “Go, I’ll make it right with Mercer.”

Soren watched his sister change from her nice dress to a leather jacket and calf-length split skirt over woollen breeches, her arrows a mixture of steel, glass and even elven. She exchanged her Legion bow for one of elven make and added an elven dagger.

“Killing elves with elven weapons? That’s ironic,” Soren observed.

“They’re the best in the common stock,” Sapphire said.

Niruin, the Bosmer, led them along secret ways so that they could ambush the Thalmor. “Take the Dragonborn alive,” ordered one in black and gold robes. “We need to understand how the Thu’um-“

Ygrun’s bow interrupted his speech and then sang twice more, claiming the two guards.

“Amazing, you actually paid attention to my training,” Niruin said dryly.

“I was a good archer before I met you. You just taught me a few tricks,” Ygrun retorted.

Esbern was locked behind a door, saying he knew nothing, until Niruin picked it. “Come on, there’s Thalmor after you,” said the archer.

“You brought them-“ quavered the old man.

“On the fifteenth day of Frostfall in 175, you told Delphine Revanche it was the beginning of the end,” Soren told him. “I’m the Dragonborn. I need your help, Blade.”

“Get him!” yelled someone in a Thalmor accent.

Niruin and Ygrun turned around and fired arrows into the darkness, earning muffled grunts.

“Nicely done,” the Bosmer said.

“Thank you,” was her answer.

“Don’t suppose you’d go up to Windhelm and shoot Ulfric on the shitter?” Soren asked wistfully.

“Talk to the Brotherhood. Murder’s their preserve,” Niruin suggested.

They eventually coaxed Esbern out and led him back to the Ragged Flagon, where a grim-faced Breton was arguing with Brynjolf. “I gave them permission!” the former was snapping.

“Sorry, old boy, but we needed Esbern alive,” Soren said nonchalantly. “The dragons will eat us all otherwise.”

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion,” sneered the Breton.

“I don’t recall giving a fuck about what you asked for,” Soren retorted insolently. “I’ve promised a favour for a favour. Don’t get your underwear in a bunch.”

“Ballsy, isn’t he?” Brynjolf remarked to an albino Imperial.

“If it wasn’t for me, your sister would be begging on the streets,” the Breton said.

“Fuck you,” Ygrun said wearily. “We found out Karliah was behind Honningbrew and Goldenglow while you twiddled your thumbs, Frey.”

“Karliah?!” exclaimed Brynjolf, the Cyrod and a shaven-headed Breton in unison.

“Gulum-Ei told us Maven wasn’t the target, we were,” Sapphire confirmed. “Karliah’s apparently where ‘it all ended’, or something like that.”

Frey’s expression was bleak. “Karliah murdered Gallus. I suppose she wants to make sure of me too.”

“From what I’m seeing, it would be no great loss,” Soren supplied helpfully. “Talk any more shit about my sister or her girlfriend and I’ll save her the trouble.”

Frey’s face darkened and Brynjolf’s mouth tightened. “Lad, don’t push it. Mercer, it might as well be you, me, Niruin and Vex-“

“Just us two,” interrupted Frey. “I want no one else from the Guild to follow in case it tips her off.”

The two went into another room and Ygrun turned to Soren. “Up to following them? You’re right, this smells to high heaven.”

“What about the dragons?” Esbern quavered.

“You can come with us,” Soren promised. “Your Penitus Oculatus file says you’re a damn good battlemage.”

“I’m not with the Guild anymore,” Ygrun told the other two in black leather. “Karliah might be good at hiding, but I’m good at hunting.”

She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Not to sound paranoid, but can you check out our beloved leader’s mansion while we’re gone? I’d have thought Frey would want reinforcements while he took himself and his second off to only Kyne knows where.”

The Imperial shrugged. “I’ll do it. I’m bored.”

“We’ll mind the fort while you’re gone,” the other one promised.

“Don’t steal too much,” Ygrun suggested with a grin. “You still owe me for the Solitude job.”

Soren always knew his sister had been sensible.


	13. Speaking With Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

Tracking Brynjolf and Mercer wasn’t that hard when you’d lived off the land all your life. Neither man was woods-wise and though stealthy, they left clear tracks for Ygrun, Soren and Sapphire to follow. So when they came to Snow Veil Sanctum and overheard the two men talking about Karliah, it was child’s play to sneak around them and look for a back door to the old tomb. Most had them, according to Soren.

Opening the door was a problem until Soren turned into a ghost, walked through it and unlocked it from the other side.

“I need me that Shout,” Sapphire whispered. Ygrun chuckled.

There was a chamber just after the corridor, where a Dunmer in worn Guild leathers with an ebony bow waited. Near her was a skeleton clad in tattered black armour that absorbed the light, human and Cyrod from the shape and size of it.

“Karliah,” hissed Sapphire. “We should kill her now.”

“No. Let’s see what happens,” Soren murmured.

Eventually, Brynjolf entered the room and within a heartbeat, the womer had nocked her arrow, aimed and fired at the Day Master. He collapsed and Mercer came forth, sword drawn. “Karliah, Karliah,” he said almost gaily. “After all these years, you’ve revealed yourself.”

“It’s taken me this long to prepare for you, Mercer,” she retorted in a slumberous contralto. “Do you think I’ll fall as easily as Gallus?”

“We should be attacking, dammit!” Sapphire hissed.

Ygrun nocked her own arrow in preparation for the shot.

“Gallus had the Guild and he had you. All he had to do was look away,” Mercer smirked. “The Skeleton Key holds the secret to unlimited wealth and power.”

“You broke your vows as a Nightingale!” Karliah said angrily. “The luck of every Thief has suffered since!”

“What does it matter? There’s no honour among Thieves.” Mercer smiled. “I thank you though for killing Brynjolf. He was beginning to get-”

Ygrun aimed and released, her arrow speeding to land in Mercer’s throat. The man’s eyes widened and he plucked the arrow out, but before he could respond, Soren was upon him and Esbern’s Frost Atronach loomed up behind him. He died before he could attack, his head rolling to land near the skeleton, mouth still agape in shock.

“If you have healing potions, we can still save Brynjolf; it’s a paralysis poison,” Karliah said hastily.

Ygrun found a powerful healing potion and a poison cure, which she dribbled into Brynjolf’s mouth until he spluttered and pushed her away. “Karliah,” he said weakly.

“Mercer killed Gallus,” Ygrun said grimly. “I shot him and Soren decapitated him. We’re not in the Guild, remember?”

“I have proof,” Karliah said softly. “I just need someone who can translate Falmer.”

“Fuck… me...” Brynjolf said as Ygrun helped him to sit up. “Explaining this to the Guild will be hard.”

“We were already wondering why something stank. Vex should have burglarised Mercer’s house by now,” Ygrun mused.

Sapphire folded her arms. “Now what?”

Soren picked up something that had rolled free of Mercer’s corpse. “Hey, this looks like a key.”

Karliah held out her hand. “It must be returned to the Twilight Sepulchre so that the Guild’s luck can be renewed.”

“What?” Brynjolf asked in disbelief.

“You mentioned Nightingales,” Sapphire mused.

“I did. Agents and avengers of Nocturnal,” Karliah confirmed. “In life, we have all the luck and wealth we could possibly want. In death, we protect the Twilight Sepulchre.”

“Sounds better than some Daedric deals,” Soren noted.

“It is,” Karliah agreed. “But Mercer betrayed his oath, murdered Gallus and has been thieving from the Guild for years.”

Everyone’s gaze went to Brynjolf. “You’re in charge, now what?” Ygrun asked.

“Why are you asking me, lass?” he demanded. “I never wanted to be in charge of anything!”

“We need two more Nightingales,” Karliah said. “Gallus always intended you to be his successor, Brynjolf. As for the third...”

“I’ll do it,” Sapphire said cheerfully. “Unlimited luck and power? Sounds better than drinking in Sovngarde with idiots.”

Ygrun blinked. “You’d sell your soul like that?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t mind being Guildmaster in time either,” Sapphire mused.

“Delvin said you were one of the special ones,” Brynjolf approved. “Granma back in the Reach is a Hag of Nocturnal. She probably knows someone who can translate Falmer too.”

“My friend said that Calcelmo the court wizard is working on a primer,” Karliah said, brightening.

Brynjolf turned to Ygrun and Sapphire. “Leave Markarth to us. I need you two to sort out Mercer’s loose ends in Riften.”

“One of those loose ends is Maven,” Ygrun warned. “I’m thinking we might move to Goldenglow Estate. Keep her on a leash.”

“Ambitious, aren’t you, lass?”

Soren snorted. “Of course she is. She’s the Dragonborn’s sister.”


	14. Improvisation in the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

It had been good to see his sister but Soren still had a duty to complete. Two of them, in fact, but the end of the civil war seemed closer to hand than the defeat of Alduin. Esbern was fretting about the need to return to Riverwood but Soren was in Winterhold with a hardened battlemage. Korir didn’t even have a huscarl, his entire guard for the Hold was about two dozen at most, and the College would probably welcome the liberation. So with a protesting Blade in tow, he walked along the coast, clearing out a bandit clan in a wrecked ship and finding some interesting salvage, and climbed up the switchback trail to the village. Meagre place, even by the standards of Cutter’s Ridge.

“Soren Fire-Blood!” spat Jarl Korir as they entered his longhouse.

“I see my reputation precedes me,” Soren drawled. “I’m giving you a choice, Jarl Korir. Surrender to the Empire or I challenge you and take the throne regardless. If it’s good enough for Ulfric, I figure it’s good enough for me – and I’m the real thing.”

“You’re a half-mer bastard!” said Korir’s wife disgustedly.

“And you’re a traitor’s wife,” Soren pointed out. “Jarl Laila had the brains to surrender when she realised that Ulfric had put his militia in places where he could replace her if she was any danger to his hegemony. She now rules a dragon-free Hold growing richer from the trade of the Empire.”

Korir and the wife exchanged glances. “If we refuse?”

“Exile, if you’re lucky.” Soren shrugged nonchalantly. “If you surrender and are willing to cooperate with the College that’s the only thing keeping your Hold alive, I’ll put in a good word for you two keeping the Hold. If not…”

“It’s just you and an old man,” sneered Korir.

“Esbern is a Blade. He can Conjure two Dremora that could kill you within heartbeats. Third offer’s the last, Korir. Surrender or be challenged for the throne.”

Korir had guts, Soren later acknowledged as he wiped his blade on the Jarl’s tunic. “Bury him decently,” he ordered the white-faced Hold guard. “Who’s the Steward around here?”

“Technically it’s Malur, but he’s a lazy bastard, so Kraldar oversees much of the day-to-day business,” supplied the innkeeper Dagur.

Kraldar, it seemed, was meant to be the Imperial pick for Jarl. “Sorry,” Soren said softly as they convened in the old Stormcloak commander’s room. Kai Wet-Pommel had put up a decent fight but he was carrion too now. After that, Winterhold’s guard folded like a blanket.

The older Nord shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Having the Dragonborn as Jarl will give Winterhold a much needed boost of prestige. I sent my huscarl to the Imperial camp. I understand why Rikke didn’t warn me.”

“I, uh, was already here and decided to take advantage of the situation,” Soren admitted with a flush. “If I’d known, things might have been a bit different.”

Sevan Telendas, the Imperial Legate for Winterhold, seemed more amused than anything else when his soldiers marched in. “We cleared the forts on the way,” he explained. “Rikke will be pleased; we’ve split the Stormcloaks in two. But you better hustle to the Pale so she knows what’s going on.”

That was how Soren, Esbern and two soldiers from the Hold guard wound up explaining themselves to Legate Primus Rikke in the Pale camp. Her expression went from incredulous to furious to amused in about thirty seconds. “I should declare it invalid and make Kraldar Jarl as was planned,” she finally said. “But that would tell our fellow Nords the old ways don’t matter. So congratulations, Jarl Soren. You’ll have your hands full once the war is done and Alduin’s dead.”

She turned to the map. “Hadvar sent incorrect orders to the Stormcloak commander, so Fort Dunstad is undermanned. I want it cleared out so we can take it and the Hold over.”

It seemed there was a massive grudge between Winterhold and the Pale, so Soren’s Hold guards had no qualms about fighting the Stormcloaks based at Fort Dunstad. Esbern’s Atronachs made all the difference, clearing out the archers as the Legionnaires engaged the troops on the ground. Soon the Stormcloak commander’s head was on a pike at the gates and Hadvar’s men settling into the fort.

“From prisoner to Jarl!” the Praetor laughed as they toasted each other at dinner. “What’s next, the High King’s throne?”

“If I so much as looked in its direction, Elisif would have me set on fire by her court wizard,” Soren pointed out. “Winterhold’s enough for me. The gods don’t like greed and ambition out of control.”

“At least we know you’ll be kept out of trouble,” Hadvar observed amusedly. “So… Ulfric or Alduin first?”

Soren paused and then said, “Ulfric. I want to see him destroyed and know that his soul’s fate lies in my hands.”

Esbern stirred. “That’s cruel, Dragonborn.”

“His wife sent assassins after my family,” Soren said grimly. “One of his sons might have taken vows but there’s still two Stormcloaks to go. Skyrim will remember Soren Ilasson, not the Ulfricssons.”

The Blade sighed and nodded. “Don’t let vengeance consume you.”

“I won’t. Ulfric’s toast and he knows it.” Soren smiled. “Then I can worry about Alduin with a clear mind.”


	15. The Best Con

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. Don’t worry, I won’t be killing Bjarni. Ygrun's story is essentially over, so the last few chapters will focus on Soren.

Vex was easily able to prove Mercer’s deceit and after a few rounds of cursing, they decided that a committee would better run the Guild than one man. Sapphire, Karliah and Brynjolf went over to… become Nightingales or whatever… and that left Ygrun to pore over the paperwork with the albino Cyrod. What she found astounded her – not at the corruption of it, exactly, but the depth and breadth and blatancy of Maven’s ways.

“So you want to move into Goldenglow Estate?” Vex asked as they had some mead.

“Yes. This could easily become a death-trap if Maven ever decides to hedge her bets,” Ygrun answered. “She’s already pissed because she isn’t the Jarl like was planned.”

“She isn’t fond of you, it’s true,” Vex said ruefully. “But are you sure you want to thumb your nose at Maven?”

“Nothing would please me more. The days of one person controlling us, either client or leader, are over. We taught Mercer that. Now it’s time to educate Maven.”

“Finally!” Maven snapped as they entered the Bee and Barb. “I sent word to you three days ago. What took you so long?”

“We were a little busy executing Mercer, exonerating Karliah and going through the paperwork,” Ygrun replied sweetly. “You’ve been a naughty, naughty girl, Maven.”

The Black-Briar matriarch smirked. “What can you do? If Laila finds out you’re involved with the Thieves’ Guild, you’ll lose your Thaneship.”

“I’ve admitted to selling things to Brynjolf,” Ygrun said. “But you and Mercer were actually stupid enough to put everything in writing.”

Vex folded her arms. “We’re not your lackeys, Maven. Partners, yes. But minions… no.”

Ygrun sat down to give her leg a rest, steepling her fingers as Maven flushed, running everything through her cunning mind. The fact was that Maven was hated through half of Skyrim, whereas Ygrun was a hero to the Rift, sister to the Dragonborn and a Thane in her own right. Maven hadn’t even bothered to make herself a Thane, relying instead on her wealth and influence to intimidate the churls.

“What do you want?” Maven finally asked.

“You to be a little more civil to us,” Vex said sweetly. “We’ve got influence all across Skyrim now, if you haven’t noticed. Because you stuck by us, you can have a place on our committee. But we’re not your minions and you’ll be paying us for all our little services.”

Maven exploded into a tirade of obscenities that would make a Legionnaire blush.

“You can start with five hundred septims now,” Ygrun continued, blatantly grinning as she pulled out some paperwork.

Maven handed over the coin before stalking off.

Ygrun tucked Vekel’s request for some Shadowbanish wine into her satchel. It was true that Mercer had written everything down but nothing in Maven’s own hand.

The best con was always seasoned liberally with the truth.


	16. Battle for Windhelm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of corpse desecration.

“Well, Jarl Soren, I’ll admit you played a significant part in bringing us this far,” Tullius said as they stood outside the double steel gates of Windhelm. “I suppose you’ll be at my side as we bring Ulfric to justice?”

“I want to see the expression on his face as the bastard half-mer son of a village whore Shouts him off his throne,” Soren admitted with a gleeful grin.

“You’re easily amused,” Hadvar observed on the other side.

“I’m not the one who laughed for three hours at a mud-bogged horker,” Soren retorted.

“Focus, people,” Rikke said crisply. “Soren, care to open the gate for us?”

“FUS RO DAH!”

Soren didn’t just tear the doors from their rusting hinges, the force of his Shout sent a good half-ton of metal through the ranks of the Stormcloaks gathered on the other side. Even from here, Tullius could see the rubble from the crumbling walls had been used to block the path to the Palace of the Kings.

Soren examined the area as Legionnaires poured in. “We’ll need to go through the marketplace and the graveyard,” he said quietly. “Windhelm was built to withstand invasion. The Stormcloaks are cornered. It’ll be ugly.”

“Lead us to the Palace,” Tullius ordered. “Use the Thu’um to clear the way.”

Soren led the way, surrounding himself with Flame Cloak, using his fire and force Shouts to break up knots of resistance. He was a far cry from the cocky Auxiliary of three months ago; his arrogance was justified and his skills equal to his claims.

They reached the Palace of the Kings and slew any Stormcloak in their way. Ralof fell under Hadvar’s blade with a bitter smile; the Quaestor closed his eyes with a murmured prayer Tullius chose not to translate. Soren opened the doors with a single Word, revealing Ulfric lounging on his throne with Galmar Stone-Fist at its foot. There was no sign of Bjarni Ulfricsson.

“Ulfric Stormcloak! You are guilty of insurrection, murder of Imperial citizens, the assassination of King Torygg, and high treason against the Empire. It's over,” Tullius announced.

“Not while I'm still breathing, it's not,” grated Galmar.

“Step aside Galmar. We're here to accept Ulfric's surrender,” Rikke said with a sigh.

“I'll never surrender Skyrim into the hands of a corrupt and dying Empire!” Ulfric roared.

“Skyrim doesn't belong to you, Ulfric,” Rikke retorted.

“No… but I belong to her,” Ulfric said with quiet dignity.

“Enough! You are traitors and will die traitors' deaths. Stand down and face public execution, or advance and face summary execution by my hands. It matters little to me. Either way I'll be sending your heads back to Cyrodiil,” Tullius informed them.

Galmar gave a bloody grin. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

It wasn’t a battle bards would sing about. Soren unleashed his fire Shout on Galmar until the huscarl was a screaming charred mass of meat, but was knocked back by Ulfric as the Jarl descended from the Throne of Ysgramor. Rikke got between him and Tullius, smashing her shield into his stomach so that he collapsed, sword falling from his hand.

“Well Ulfric, you can't escape from me this time. Any last requests before I send you to... to wherever you people go when you die,” Tullius said grimly, drawing his sword.

“Sovngarde, sir,” Rikke chided.

“Right. Well?” Tullius asked as Soren staggered to his feet, drinking a healing potion plucked from his beltpouch.

“Let the Dragonborn be the one to do it. It'll make for a better song,” Ulfric demanded defiantly.

“Song or not, I want it done,” Tullius ordered.

“It won’t be a song you’ll be singing in Sovngarde,” Soren announced. He went around the stricken Jarl and planted his gladius in the middle of Ulfric’s back.

“Talos be with you,” Rikke muttered.

Tullius chose not to acknowledge her statement. “What do you mean by that?” he asked Soren. “I thought Nords who died in battle went to Sovngarde.”

“Not if they’re stabbed in the back without a weapon to hand,” Soren answered, pulling his sword free of the dead Jarl. “Not if his body is dismembered and the pieces buried without cairn or tombstone.”

“Damnatio memoriae?” Tullius asked curiously.

“Something like that.” Soren kicked Ulfric over with his foot. “I don’t want him to have any honour in death because he had none in life.”

“Well said.” Tullius smiled at the youth. “Go and celebrate. You’ll need the fortification to take on the dragons.”

He smiled mechanically and left.

Tullius sighed and turned to Rikke. The real work was just beginning.


	17. Time and Tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and criminal acts. Last chapter; thanks for sticking with me.

“Ila, mother of Jarl Soren Fire-Blood of Winterhold and Thane Ygrun of the Rift. Through your womb came salvation.”

After reading the inscription, Bjarka Bear-Born studied the statue it adorned. Twice the height of a tall Nord, carved from the local granite of the Velothi Mountains, Ila had been a woman with fine features and a slight build who carried an ale keg in hand.

“Who was Soren Fire-Blood again?” she asked over her shoulder at Brelyna Maryon, the senior lecturer of mythoarchaeology at the University of Solstheim. Her fellow Dunmer had been alive during the tumultuous events that ended the Fourth Era and begun the Fifth Era a century ago.

Brelyna tugged her long black braid in amusement. “He was the Last Dragonborn. The one who… well, you know what happened to your grandfather better than I do.”

“Only because Da kept on telling the story as a parable on how you shouldn’t shit on the lowest,” Bjarka said with a sigh. “Ulfric was an idiot.”

“You’ll get no arguments from me,” Brelyna said amusedly. “I met the man once and once was too much.”

Bjarka chewed her bottom lip. In some ways, she could sympathise with the Dragonborn as the daughter of a Nord and a Dunmer. House Redoran had adopted Bjarni Ulfricsson after he’d single-handedly saved Raven Rock from poverty by finding more ebony, saving them from ash spawn by ending an undead’s reign of terror, and negotiated a treaty that saw the Skaal relocated to Skyrim as the last of Solstheim became swallowed by the ash. But that hadn’t stopped the sneers _she_ received for daring to have a Nord name and be proud of her Nord father.

“History gets a lot more complicated when it involves your family,” Brelyna, scion of the Telvanni, observed sympathetically. She’d stopped the Thalmor from ending the world twice, once at the College as its Archmage and then again during the War of Shattered Gold thirty years later. Bjarka’s parents had fought in that war too.

She shook her head. “Time to justify our research grant into turn-of-the-Era Nord village life. Where do we start?”

Time never ended, nor ceased in the flowing; tales never forgot, nor ceased in the knowing.


End file.
